Ten Thousand Ways to Kill him.

Ten Thousand Ways to Kill him.
Alice’s POV 

I sat curled up by the ceiling-high window, my knees pressed tightly against my chest, my eyes staring blankly into the night. The sky was a vast, empty black—no stars, no moon, just like the pit in my stomach. 

Hot tears rolled silently down my cheeks, warm and bitter as they trailed along my jaw and soaked into the fabric of the dress I hadn’t changed out of.

What had my life turned into?

I used to dream beneath stages and stadium lights. 

Music was my religion, my salvation. If not for Rick… if not for that lying bastard and the best friend who stabbed me in the back, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be caged in a stranger’s mansion like a goddamn prisoner.

I’d be halfway across the world by now—touring, recording, tasting freedom on the tip of every microphone. But instead, I was here. Alone. Cornered. Owned.

My nails dug into the soft flesh of my thighs.

“I swear, Rick,” I whispered aloud, venom clinging to my voice. “I won’t rest until I crush you and Yvonne to the fucking ground.”

My voice cracked, but my vow didn’t.

“You’ll wish you were dead by the time I’m done with you.”

I shut my eyes and let the tears spill freely. Rage burned behind them, and hatred curled like smoke in my lungs, thick and poisonous. 

I was soaked in grief, but it was the kind that could kill.

I stayed awake all night, my gaze fixed on the shifting dark clouds as they gave way to dawn.

The first rays of sunlight pierced the horizon, faint and golden. The black sky softened to steel blue, and delicate pink streaks swept the edges of the world as everything slowly stirred from slumber.

Birds chirped in synchronized melodies, almost mockingly sweet, and a soft summer breeze brushed through the opened window. 

The rustling of the trees felt far too peaceful for the hell storm inside me. I stayed up all night because sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford—not here, not now. 

What if he came back? What if Don Tiberio slipped into the room while I slept, his cold eyes glinting as he decided my fate? Or worse, what if I never woke up? How could I fight for my revenge, my freedom, if I let my guard down?

Staying awake was safer. My heart was too heavy and my brain too stubborn to shut down.

A soft knock at the door snapped me out of my thoughts. 

I didn’t flinch, just stared blankly ahead. 

The sound of jingling keys followed, then a faint click as the lock turned. The heavy oak door creaked open, and gentle footsteps echoed across the polished hardwood floor.

“Good morning, ma’am. Don Tiberio asked me to deliver your food.”

A woman’s voice filled the room. Her Italian accent was thick, the English words not fluent enough but clear for me to understand.

I still didn’t turn, but I sensed her movements as she crossed the room, the soft clink of a tray being set down—on the coffee table or the bed. I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“Your outfit will be delivered soon,” she continued, her voice soft but professional. “He’s assigned you a personal maid. She’ll escort you to him once you’re ready.”

That snapped me out of my haze. 

What did she just say?

Assigned me a maid? Like I was some doll to be dressed and paraded?

My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms, and I whipped my head around, fury igniting in my chest. 

My eyes met hers.

She was small—maybe five foot one—with dark curls tied in a low bun and soft features made sterner by the fear in her gaze. 

She wore a crisp black uniform, the kind you’d expect in a place like this, with a white apron tied neatly around her waist. 

Her hands fidgeted slightly, betraying her calm demeanor, and I wondered how many others she’d served in this house of secrets—how many had survived.

But before I could voice the hurricane inside me, she turned quickly on her heel and left, her footsteps retreating faster than they’d come.

The door shut with a soft click behind her.

I hissed under my breath, the sting of fresh tears burning behind my eyes again—only this time, they weren’t from fear. They were from fury.

Tiberio DeVescori didn’t just want to break me—he wanted to own me. Dress me up, sit me down, control every damn breath I took. The thought of facing him again, of standing under that piercing gaze, made my stomach churn.

I glanced at the tray she’d left. The sight of it mocked me, a reminder of his wealth, his power, and control.

The thought of eating his food felt like swallowing defeat so I refused to touch the food. But my stomach growled, sharp and impatient. 

I clutched it lightly, as if I could quiet it with my hand, but the truth gnawed at me… I hadn’t eaten since I landed in Milan. And no amount of righteous fury could drown out basic human need.

With a scowl, I swallowed my pride along with the bitterness rising in my throat, and forced myself to the table.

The food smelled incredible—creamy risotto, grilled vegetables, delicate pastries and steamy coffee that looked like they belonged on a Parisian window display. 

I hated that it made my mouth water, and made me crave it.

I ate slowly, chewing each bite like it might be poisoned. But it wasn’t. It was divine.

Of course it was. Even his cruelty came wrapped in silk.

I’d just swallowed the last bite, the coffee’s rich bitterness lingering on my tongue, when a sharp knock broke the silence. 

My pulse spiked, and I froze, half-expecting him to barge in, his storm-filled eyes ready to make good on his threat. But the door creaked open, and a different maid stepped inside, 

She was taller than the first maid, maybe in her late twenties. She wore the same crisp black uniform as the first maid, but hers was slightly wrinkled, as if she’d rushed to get here.

She didn’t seem afraid.

She smiled faintly and walked closer, holding out a black garment bag.

“My name is Calla,” she introduced, her Italian accent refined, her English smoother than the previous maid’s.

“Don Tiberio requested you wear this.”

I didn’t reach for it. I just stared at the bag, then at her.

“You mean he ordered me to wear it,” I replied flatly, my voice laced with venom. “Let’s not sugarcoat things.”

Calla paused, as if measuring my tone. Her smile faltered.

“I’m just here to assist you,” she said softly, still holding out the bag. “You should hurry. He doesn’t like tardiness, and….

“Don’t tell me what he likes!” I cut her off, my fists balling at my sides.

“I’m not his property, and I’m not here to play dress-up for him!” 

Her gaze didn’t drop. She held steady, then gave a small, respectful bow.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to upset you, I am just doing my job.” The gentleness in her words punched a small hole through my rage. 

I should feel bad for snapping. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just a cog in Tiberio’s machine, probably as trapped as I was. 

I didn’t respond. I just looked away.

With a small bow, Calla set the bag on the bed and retreated, her footsteps soft as the door clicked shut behind her. 

I was alone again. Then my gaze fell on the garment bag.

I wanted to tear it apart, to burn every trace of Tiberio’s control. But what good would that do? 

I imagined a thousand ways to end him. My mind raced with impossible plans—poison in his wine, a knife in the dark, escaping through the window– anything to get out of here.

But none of them would work.

Tiberio DeVescori wasn’t just dangerous—he was calculated. I’d read enough books to know men like him were always a million steps ahead.

I’d need more than rage and desperation to bring a man like him down.

With a heavy sigh, I grabbed the garment bag and the small basket of beauty essentials he’d provided—lotions, perfumes, makeup, all perfectly curated, as if he’d planned every detail of my transformation. 

I stormed into the bathroom, the door swinging open to reveal a space that screamed wealth. 

Floor-to-ceiling marble in a soft stormy gray, gold accents on the sinks and showerheads, a freestanding black tub that looked like it belonged in a magazine. The lights were dimmable, soft, like candlelight. It smelled like vetiver and amber.

Even his bathroom was seductive.

I turned on the shower, stripped off my clothes, and stepped into the warm cascade, letting it wash the filth of yesterday from my skin. 

As I lathered the sponge with a rich, floral body wash, I had to admit—Tiberio had impeccable taste.

But then a darker thought crept in, slithering through my mind like poison: How many women have stood here, lathering their skin with his gifts, wearing his dresses, bending to his will?

A lump rose in my throat, one I couldn’t explain. And then, like acid, the burn hit my chest.

The same fire I used to feel whenever I saw Rick with Yvonne… or any other woman he swore meant nothing.

Jealousy.

What the hell?

I clenched my jaw and rinsed the soap from my arms, scrubbing harder than necessary. This wasn’t the same. 

Tiberio was not someone to love or desire. He wasn’t mine. He was a monster—a beautiful, hollow monster.

Still… the burn didn’t go away.

I swallowed hard, forcing the feeling down, burying it beneath my hatred. 

Tiberio isn’t a good person, I reminded myself, scrubbing my skin until it stung. He was a mafia don, a man who thrived on control and cruelty. 

Whatever this was—this spark, this burn—it was a trick, a weakness I couldn’t afford. I have to focus on survival, on making Rick pay, on finding a way out of this cage before Tiberio’s threat became my reality.